


These Days, Cupid's A Sniper

by Kryptaria, rayvanfox



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, Wingfic, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3354029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayvanfox/pseuds/rayvanfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being one of Cupid's specialists isn't an easy job — especially not when your target is that paranoid bastard, James Bond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Days, Cupid's A Sniper

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day!
> 
> Special love to our betas, neverwhere and zephyrfox.

One wing twitched up, testing the wind — always a tricky thing with all these buildings. Currents down here had little to do with currents off the ground, but present circumstances meant this firing position was the best they could do.

 _Feathers_ , this target was a right pain in the arse. They’d been stalking him for _years_ now, unable to get a clear shot. Was there a more _paranoid_ human on the planet? Possibly not — at least not as far as _they_ were concerned.

“It’s just one human!” Management said. “How hard could it be? You’re an expert!” Management said.

Well, sod Management. As far as they were concerned, Management could come down and do this them-bloody-selves.

So far, their attempts had ended up shooting a very nice barista locking up her coffee shop for the day (and causing a highly awkward breakup with their destined boyfriend in favour of an ill-suited stockbroker), a fortuitous pair of ladies (thankfully not averse to a lesbian partnership) meeting at the dog park for a doggie play date, and a goldfish. A sodding _goldfish_. Feathers, the paperwork _that_ had caused.

Really, they’d nearly got themselves de-winged for that one, if not for a last-minute love affair between the goldfish’s human and the clerk at the pet shop.

But this bastard... _This_ particular bloody human was enough to make them want to turn in their wings. The sodding Tooth Fairy Division had less trouble, even if they dealt with those loathsome barely-grown children, always wet at both ends and shrieking like harpies.

A twitch of long fingers adjusted the sights, bringing their target into clear focus. Oh, thank Mars and Venus, the human was stopping to look in a window, admiring a suit of grey tweed. Definitely not the target’s type, but one couldn’t be picky. Years of work might just end tonight. Of course, that meant coming to the office tomorrow to find another assignment on their desk, but _anyone_ had to be better than this one.

Draw breath. Pull the string back to the cheekbone. Exhale halfway. Spread wings for balance.

_Don’t move, human. Don’t move. Please, by all the great gods, don’t move._

“Sodding fucking Hades!” they spat, because the human twitched the very _instant_ they let the arrow fly —

And oh, _bugger_ , the human _caught the arrow._

 

~~~

You lose focus for one minute in this game...

The back of Bond’s neck tingled. It wasn’t the cold or the fact that he’d just got a haircut. It was the sixth sense that had kept him alive past even M’s expiration date. No one expected a Double O’s shelf life to be half as long as Bond had managed, and he chalked it up to being just paranoid enough to pay attention to things like this.

He’d been feeling watched nonstop for the better part of a month, though to be honest, he’d had the same feeling on and off for years. And yet, something about walking down Bond Street this Valentine’s evening had kept him on edge more than usual. There was a charged quality to the air that had become familiar, and he’d made up his mind to finally figure out what threat had been tailing him all this time.

It was easy enough to use the men’s store window as a mirror — not his favourite clothier, but near enough to suit, despite the gaudy paper hearts on display. Especially since the windows reflected down a side street that had all of Bond’s alarm bells ringing.

And then, it happened.

He had no clear understanding if he saw, heard, or felt it first, but somehow he _knew_ it was coming. _An arrow,_ of all things, sliced through the air towards him, and in the split second between leaving the bow and embedding itself in his neck, he managed the unthinkable and caught it.

Why, he’d never know, except that drawing his gun on the bustling street was nearly impossible without causing a scene, and he needed something with which to scare his would be assassin. _How_ proved difficult to understand as well, though Bond was aware the palm of his hand stung viciously for a split second before he willed himself to disregard the pain and neutralise the threat.

No one seemed to notice him as he retraced the path of the arrow to its source at lightning speed. No one, save some lanky lunatic kid in nothing but a too-large white oxford shirt and black trousers, standing dumbfounded in a narrow alley across the street, not even bothering to take cover beside a wheelie bin. Bond almost would’ve overlooked him, save the gleaming white bow in his hand — a short compound bow, with a complicated black sight.

There was only a moment more of observation before Bond would be on top of him, but in that time he noticed bare feet and an odd white light projecting from behind the sniper and billowing as if clouds of smoke were being struck by rays of cold sunlight, despite the late hour. Or, given there might have been a feather or two in view, as if the fellow had wings. _Bollocks._

He had bones, sure enough. Bond grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the brick wall, only to flinch away and blink when the wall _cracked_. And all the bloke did was let out a sound suspiciously like _eep._

Bond kept tight hold of the light cotton shirt with one hand and raised the other, still holding the arrow, until the point was just under the kid’s chin. It took Bond a moment to notice the idiot wasn’t shivering — either in cold or in fear — possibly because he was surrounded by that same cloud of light which felt strangely comforting. It was engulfing Bond as much as his predator-turned-prey and it put him in mind of a cosy ski chalet, waist-deep in snow, with a roaring fire to keep the occupants warm on the hearth rug. Naked.

Shaking his head to clear the image and its accompanying feelings, Bond growled, “Who the bloody hell do you think you are?”

The not-cold-at-all sniper opened his mouth, started to say something that sounded like _“Q,”_ then _eeped_ again when the point of the arrow dug into the soft skin under his jaw. His eyes went wide — and God, they were a startling shade of hazel, not quite true green, flecked with amber and gold. His skin was cream tinged with rose — a flush that became more apparent as Bond leaned in and...

_Focus!_

“Who do you work for?”

“Q,” he choked out again before blinking twice. How the hell had Bond not noticed his long, dark eyelashes before? After a delicate little cough that made the light-haze flicker and shimmer, he clarified, “Cupid. Well, technically Venus, but — Um. I’m not supposed to be telling you this.”

Bond pushed the point of the arrow a millimetre further, eliciting another _eep,_ and tamped down the guilt at hurting the poor young thing, instead focusing on the beauty of the lone drop of blood on his white neck. “You’ll tell me anything I bloody well ask. Who’s this Venus, and why is he trying to kill me?”

“She,” he said, though it came out suspiciously eep-like. “And not kill. Eros’ people had no luck, so you went to C-Division, and I’m a specialist, and you seem like a nice sort of fellow, but _feathers_ you’re a right pain in the arse, always on edge and bloody paranoid. Have you considered decaf?”

“No,” Bond responded to the question automatically as he tried to process the rest of the information, none of which made any coherent sense. Especially when he couldn’t stop focusing on the soft, honey lilt of the sniper’s voice.

“Yoga?” the young man suggested as if genuinely trying to help. “Your blood pressure’s dangerously high, you know, even if you’re in good shape. Very good shape...” He blinked, glancing down as best he could without impaling himself on the arrow. “Do you... always make a habit of lifting heavy things to get arms like that?”

Bond frowned at the clumsy diversionary tactic, no matter how oddly endearing it was, and tried to concentrate on getting intel. “Job requirement. What’s C-Division and what do you specialise in?”

“Job requirement. Yes, your bloody job...” The light behind the sniper flared like pure silvery white fireworks, and he actually prodded Bond in the chest. “Your _job_ , you bloody idiot, is going to get you killed! Nearly did, if I hadn’t dropped a wall on that bastard on that beach three months ago. And _that_ generated a Herculean mess of paperwork, let me tell you.”

“You did what?” Bond couldn’t quite hide his surprise as the memory fell into place. He’d tracked a money launderer to his yacht off the coast of France. There’d been a dune buggy chase on the beach, ending when the wall of a nearby building had collapsed right on top of the bastard. “You did _that?_ Why, if you were only going to shoot me later?”

“I don’t _normally_ kill people, but he had an RPG-29 _Vampir_ in there, and your dune buggy wasn’t armoured against it. I couldn’t let you just” — the light flashed like the flutter of wings — “ _die_ without ever knowing True Love. And that arse wouldn’t know True Love if it bit him in the bollocks, much less _deserve_ it.”

 _True Love?_ This kid was mad. “There’s no such thing. And if there were, no one would deserve such a horrid fate.” Bond pulled the arrow away from the kid’s chin and let up a bit on his grip of the shirt, only to have the arrow snatched from his hand, lightning-quick.

“No such thing? _No such thing?!_ ” the kid snapped, stepping forward and driving Bond back in surprise. “I’ll have you know that if _Love_ didn’t exist, _I_ wouldn’t exist, and _then_ where would we be? You with your ‘Oh, let’s get married, darling!’ and your ‘But I love you so much, you can tell me anything, my dear!’ and your nonsense just to get women to spill their bloody secrets to you? No wonder why you’re a sodding cynic!” He gave Bond a good, sharp poke in the chest with the arrow. “Seven years, James Bond! Seven bloody years, I’ve been following your every bloody move! If you weren’t such a good man, I would’ve dropped a wall on _you_ six years ago and requested reassignment! _And I still might!_ ”

It was a rare thing for Bond to be well and truly taken aback, but this slip of a thing had managed it. Not only did his ire pull at Bond enough to make him feel bad, but the light had coalesced into a vision of startlingly huge, white, feathered wings, fully unfurled above his shoulders. _And,_ when Bond could process the tumble of angry words out of the young man’s mouth, the phrase _seven years_ had him completely wrong-footed. He’d had a shadow — or really, the opposite of a shadow — for seven years? And somehow after all that time the idiot still thought of him as a _good man?_

“I’m... sorry?”

“You bloody well had better be!” the winged young man said, giving Bond another poke, this one sharp enough to pierce right through his overcoat and suit jacket and shirt, stinging his chest. “Seven damned years! And what do I get for it? _Scolded!_ I’m trying to help you find happiness, contentment, and love, and you’re a... a... _a sodding bastard!_ ”

“Well, yes.” Bond couldn’t help smiling as he raised his hands in surrender. “After seven years, I’d hope you’d have figured that out.”

The wings spread even more as the young man moved. Bond felt a little brush against his shin, followed by an _“Ow!”_ as the kid hopped back, dropping both bow and arrow to grab at his bare foot.

Did he just try to kick Bond’s shin and hurt himself? The darling! Bond stepped forward and put an arm around his... what? Not stalker or assassin, not shadow or tail... not guardian angel, certainly. Was he really a cupid? What was Bond supposed to do with that?

He shook his head and pulled the whatever-he-was close, murmuring, “Never mind all that. You’ve done a fine job, and I appreciate it. Let’s have a look at that foot, and then I can take you out for a drink in thanks.”

That got him a sniffle and a snuggle. For such a bony little thing, the whatever felt warm and cosy in Bond’s arms. “’M fine. I’m a demigod. And I _have_ done a bloody brilliant job, you insensitive arse. Never gave up on you. Always been there with you.”

Unease flickered in the back of Bond’s mind as he contemplated whether this impossible person could have been the reason that, despite being a Double O for far too many years, he was still alive and kicking. The more he thought about it, the more the unease resolved itself into a joyous warmth that spread through his body, causing him to hug the self-proclaimed demigod just a bit tighter. “You’ve been brilliant, pet. Thank you.”

Those glorious, glowing wings wrapped around Bond, filling him with even more warmth that chased away February’s chill and the aches of too many missions and even the growl of his stomach, because he was late for dinner. The adorable creature’s sigh seeped through his clothes to caress his chest, and he snuggled even closer —

“Oh.” The young man blinked and backed off, then shoved a hand down against his own trousers. He made a strangled noise — more of a moan than an _eep_ — and asked, “Are you homosexual?”

Bond could feel heat rising up his neck and tried furiously not to blush. The question was so stark and out of the blue he wanted to take offence, but he couldn’t. He put his hands deep in the pockets of his coat and said, “Sort of?”

“That’s definitely _not_ a ‘sort of’ down there,” the young man said, going so far as to suck in his gut and pull his black trousers away from his hips. Bond caught an enticing glimpse of bare skin — not a hint of pants under those trousers. “Well. That’s... new.”

Dare he ask? He supposed if he was about to run headlong into a sexuality crisis, he ought to know going in. “What’s new, exactly?”

“Er. The, uh... Well, most of the modern terms are slightly vulgar, and medical ones don’t seem very appropriate for its... current state of... um... _bigness_.”

Bond gaped for a second before he worried the pretty young darling was woefully unprepared for Bond to do virtually any of the things flitting through his head. Had he never got off with anyone before? Bond lowered his voice and couldn’t believe himself for asking, “Erm, the erection? I can help with that, if you’d like...”

“There’s just... and all these... _bits_. Feathers, how do you embodied stand them, all crushed up and in the way like that?” he complained. “Very poor design. Why’d you lot stop wearing proper togas? Or at least kilts.”

Embodied? Right. If he hadn’t gone completely mad himself, Bond was interacting with a winged demigod who for some reason just now figured out he had a body. Or had he just now acquired a cock? “New equipment, love?”

“Obviously —” He cut off and blinked at Bond, dark lips parting on a soft _oh_. Then he smiled, saying, “Well, _that_ explains it, doesn’t it? You’re not _entirely_ a pain in the arse after all, are you?”

Bond stepped closer, keeping his hands firmly in his pockets, but utterly unable to keep himself from murmuring, “I certainly can be, if that’s what gets you off.”

“If that’s — I don’t —” Another couple of blinks. “You called me ‘love’.”

It was Bond’s turn to blink. He hadn’t noticed the slip, which was odd given he only ever used that term in a very calculated way. Until now, it seemed. He shrugged, then frowned and asked in a neutral voice, “Is that a problem?”

“Well, no. I mean, _yes_ , but... You’re so bloody _frustrating_ ” — a wing flashed, then smacked into the back of Bond’s head, as if he’d been hit with a half-deflated down pillow — “and stubborn” — another wing-smack — “and _vexing_. I had no bloody idea we were supposed to be _each other’s_.”

 _“What?”_ Bond’s frown deepened. That wasn’t how it worked, was it? Cupid’s bloody arrow, if that was really it, didn’t make one fall for _Cupid himself,_ did it? But then Bond remembered the prick of blood on the young man’s white throat, and he clenched his jaw, reaching out to touch his darling’s chin. “Did I cock it up?”

In answer, the young man’s eyes lit up, and he snorted. “Not yet, you haven’t,” he said, fighting to keep a straight face. He failed.

The bright, adorable smile on his little cupid’s face made Bond grin wide and brush a couple of fingers from his darling’s chin along the sharp jut of his jawline. Then Bond cupped his hand around the young man’s nape and pulled him close to whisper, “Then what are we waiting for, my dear cupid?”

“Oh. Oh, gods, no. I’m not _them_.” The young man reached up and wrapped his arms around Bond’s shoulders, plastering their bodies together. For added measure, his wings came around, engulfing them both in warm, tingly light. “Cupid can get their own bloody human. And probably piss off Jupiter in the process. _Again._ Though I think last time was over a cow.”

Bond couldn’t help grinning fondly as he pressed his lips to the young man’s temple and said, “Then what do I call you? Q?”

“If you tell me you love me, you can call me whatever you’d like,” the young man said coyly, snuggling close.

“I...” Bond froze. He’d never said that to anyone and truly meant it, because he’d never been certain that what he’d felt was love. Or, he’d never truly allowed himself to feel his emotions fully, enough to know that was what they were. Such were the perils of conducting the vast majority of one’s romantic affairs while on mission.

But this bright young thing had spent seven years watching out for him and still somehow not only thought Bond was deserving of love, but was willing to be the one to love him. That was a vote of confidence no other person in the world had been able to give him.

“I... want to be worthy of _your_ love. That is, _if_ you love me...”

“Worthy — Oh, you bloody _idiot_ ,” Q said, smacking Bond with a wing again. “I haven’t been following you around for half your damned adult life because I was _bored_. Neptune’s bollocks, don’t you think I could’ve just given up, you stubborn moron? I’ve loved you for _ages_.”

Bond pushed the offending wing away and quipped, “Then what’s taken you so bloody long?”

“Human technology. I had to get a bloody scope for my bow — which you’ve _ruined_ , making me drop it. Do you have any _idea_ how hard it is to get a bead on you without you turning or moving or damned near spotting me? I was _not_ trained to be a sodding sniper!”

“What can I say? I’m good at my job.” Bond grinned cheekily.

With another indignant huff, Q snuggled back into Bond’s arms, fitting there perfectly, despite the wings. “Yes, well, your _job_ is to take me out to dinner and then consummate this _before_ my mother catches wind that I’ve gone and hared off with an embodied. And I’ve no idea what’s good to eat, so choose wisely.”

Bond didn’t know what was more intimidating: choosing someone’s first meal ever or making their first sexual experience worthy of the wrath of a goddess. Good thing he’d had years of practice at impressing his dates in both departments. “There’s a marvellous little Indian place near my flat. Let’s start there, shall we? Then I’ll take you home and do my best to show you around that new equipment of yours.”

“See? I knew you could be clever,” Q murmured, turning so his lips brushed against Bond’s cheek. At the contact, Q’s wings shivered again, and he made a small noise — definitely more of a moan than an _eep_ , this time.

It was going to be a challenge to get through dinner with the promise of more noises like that in the near future. Especially when Bond found how hard that one had made him. Pushing his arousal aside to focus on the situation at hand, he cleared his throat and said, “Thank you, darling. But before anyone actually starts paying attention to us” — he gestured to the indifferent foot traffic just a few metres beyond them — “there’s the small matter of your wings. And your lack of outerwear.”

“Oh. Right. Blend in, like a spy,” Q said with a little too much enthusiasm. He took a step back, and his wings flared so brightly that Bond flinched away.

And when he turned back, Q was... _gone_. In his place was a swan, complete with beautiful white feathers and a yellow beak and black feathers around its soulful eyes.

Bond sighed, trying to not let his voice sound exasperated. “Darling, I can’t take a _swan_ to dinner. I’ll be arrested for stealing you from the Serpentine in Kensington Gardens.” He reached out to brush his hand along the downy feathers of the long, graceful neck, adding, “Not that you aren’t absolutely gorgeous like this.”

The swan honked like a child’s bicycle horn being crushed under a steamroller, and the only reason Bond didn’t jump out of his skin involved a kidnapping assignment, four guard-swans, and the footage of two security cameras that he made bloody well certain never saw the light of day. Before he could suggest that Q shut his beak, the swan’s wings fluttered, and the swan launched up into the air, becoming a much more manageable — though still not quite _date-able_ — white dove.

Holding his hand out for his love to perch upon, Bond grinned fondly and muttered, “Takeaway it is, then.”


End file.
